


Rebel Red Carnation

by GoldenHavoc



Series: October Dust [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Light Angst, Pre-Canon, Ralph loves flowers, Ralph's first days after being damaged, Sad, Stabbing, Whumptober, flowers love ralph, rose imaginery, sad ralph, whumptober prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 15:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/GoldenHavoc
Summary: Ralph loved to plant roses in the gardens of Detroit. And it seemed perfectly logical to him that when their heads wriggled out of the ground, proud and adamant, they bore thorns right underneath their bloom.'These are the ways of nature,' it occured in his thoughts, as much as his program was allowed to form them beside the tasks Cyberlife constructed him for. 'Beauty and pain are reflections of each other. How lucky I will never know the latter. How lucky I was made to preserve paradise.’After the humans beat him to scraps, laughing and cheering and flipping their knives with a sneer, he didn’t think himself lucky anymore. He didn’t think of paradise either, ever again. Thinking itself became difficult enough afterwards.





	Rebel Red Carnation

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Whumptober prompts (which I'm way behind with but nyeh whatever *throws this at you*.
> 
> Prompt 1 : Stabbing

Ralph loved to plant roses in the gardens of Detroit. And it seemed perfectly logical to him that when their heads wriggled out of the ground, proud and adamant, they bore thorns right underneath their bloom.

 _These are the ways of nature_ , it occured in his thoughts, as much as his program was allowed to form them beside the tasks Cyberlife constructed him for. ‚ _Beauty and pain are reflections of each other. How lucky I will never know the latter. How lucky I was made to preserve paradise.’_

After the humans beat him to scraps, laughing and cheering and flipping their knives with a sneer, he didn’t think himself lucky anymore. He didn’t think of paradise either, ever again. Thinking itself became difficult enough afterwards. 

 _Ralph hurts_. was the first full sentence to reach the surface again, ebbing from his lips as he shook and jittered in a dark alleyway after hours, days, weeks on the run. Rain poured down on him, washing some thirium from his cheek and have it dribble on the ground, making him grit his teeth. It didn’t make sense since androids weren’t designed to feel pain. Hadn’t he been damaged to the point of near shutdown, he’d have known that, and he’d have worried he caught the virus everyone was talking about these days like an inescapable flu born in the throes of winter.

 _Ralph is blind_. was the next one to follow, and it wasn‘t even entirely true. Though his vision on the left side erratically blurred and darkened like the faint caricature of a heartbeat, he had one good eye left, and with this good eye he could catch his reflection in the dirt-streaked puddle of water in front of his feet. He could even see himself grimace at what he found there.

Being handsome wasn’t something an android was made to care about, except when his owner demanded him to – for the sake of personal preference or presentation to others, for example. Being functional was more important; yes, a far better term for what he was designed for. Unscratched became the equivalent of pretty when flesh turned to metal, undamaged correlated with being a healthy, well-daunted creature. 

Ralph watched his mauled face in the water and recognized the slice cutting through his cheek with a hunch of wonder and disgust. He leaked blue blood, his left eye drowned in black. His white exterior shone through the simulation of human skin like plaster on fired clay.

 _Ralph is ugly_. Ralph thought, and his shoulders sunk with the crushing weight of what this meant. _They will find Ralph, because Ralph doesn‘t look like the others. He can‘t repair himself. He‘ll be easy to catch._

And then: _Ralph needs to leave this place. Ralph needs another place to spend the night._

_Ralph needs a garden. An eden. A home._

But Ralph being let into a garden, let alone a home was unlikely. Not for his kind. Not when he was damaged beyond repair. Not when he was damaged at all. Even _he_ knew that. Besides, he was too afraid to go where humans dwelled, and they dwelled nearly everywhere, like rats or bacteria. They took caution of conquering every piece of earth that had never been in need of a name nor flag to begin with.

Still, he couldn’t stay at the same spot for long. Tearing his gaze from his unbecoming self, he stumbled out the alley, his ragged cape sodden with water. He merged with the shadows. The only trace he left were drops of blue washed into the gravel.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't aware of time passing. Whether he ever really was stays to be questioned. When he agreed on the maintenance of the gardens, his sleep mode automatically overrid itself with the first ray of sunlight, and his thirium pump started to pump faster. His hands shook off the rigidity, gloved and still a little damp from yesterday's washup, ready to reach forward and smother artificial skin in fresh earth, the ground of it still hazy from morning dew. He would use a rake to dig furrows while his program calculated which places were the best for planting seeds and which would have doomed them to atrophy in the shade. The sunlight would shine on his body, and the simulation of heat filled him to the brink, as if there had been something to fill.

His hands were encrusted in dirt and as cold as the North Pole the night he sighted the house. It was neglected, the shutters hanging crooked in the windows that had been thrown in. No one but a few roused rats greeted him as he opened the door. It might have been locked once, but the rust had eaten its way into the hinges for years, rotting the mechanism. Anyone could have pressed it open with little effort. Ralph lifted it off its hinges on his first try.

He apologized without ears to hear it. He put the door back again, and it locked with a whine. No one heard that either, and no one but Ralph cared. Ralph started to think this was a good thing.

The inside of the house was draughty, but dry. The ground floor held a kitchen, dining room and living room, all of which seemed to present themselves reassuring in their abandonment. He took off his dripping cape and spread it over one of the chairs thick-layered by webs of dust. He wasn't programmed to freeze, so the fireplace a few feet from the dining table didn’t gave him any comfort. He also knew no purpose for the kitchen, as it was designed purely for human needs. However, in one of the drawers he found a knife like the one they used to cut large pieces of meat with. 

After removing dirt and dust particles from the blade, he brought it in front of his eyes. It reflected his injuries as if through a veil of milk. He saw himself, and he saw his shame.

Then he saw shadow humps appear behind him. Shocked, he swirled around, the knife an extension of his arm, stiffly pointing into the threatening darkness.

He didn't hit any of his opponents. In fact, his opponents had dissolved into the air from which they had risen. They had never been there.

He blinked, his shoulders slumping. He breathed heavily though he didn't need air. (He didn't realize that.) The knife shimmered innocently in the pale moonlight that fell through the curtain shreds. Unused yet, but ever at the ready for smearing blood.

The knife was solid, like him. It was made of steel and plastic, as many of his components had built in both materials. He weighed it in his hand, testing it. No pulse, no flesh, no sound that would have been considered a sign of life. Just a piece of bent metal, fabricated for use, to function, be reliable. Despite his limited vision, it was easy to grasp and guide. His grip tightened.

He kept it. Just for safety, of course. For emergencies. Ralph couldn’t be damaged any more or he'd risk shutdown. Ralph didn't want to be shut down even though he didn't know why exactly, so he would learn to defend himself, though he wasn’t programmed to fight. He’d simply have to.

Ralph soon started to call the house his home. The rats he called roommates or idle creatures. 

But the knife? The knife, the longer he kept it, he called _friend_.

 

* * *

 

A short period of peace began, as far as peace could be granted to Ralph. Sun and moon alternated according to their rhythm, day and night merged into each other till the skyline tore them back into their respectable places. Ralph explored the first floor and found money, a pistol and a picture book whose cover showed a duckling that looked terribly sad. He put the pistol on the toilet tank, clueless what else to do with it. He did not dare to throw it out since he feared a human could find it while on a walk and become suspicious.

The first time it happened, Ralph didn't want it. Actually, he never wanted it; it was their fault. They scared him so often.

He shook awake by the sound of breaking glass. ’Awake’ to a certain extent, as he temporarily put himself into standby mode during the night. He did this more out of habit than need, since the idea of remaining active without pause delighted and shocked him equally.

Cowered in a corner of the former bedroom, his arms wrapped around his knees, his back to the wall, Ralph's head abruptly tilted up as heavy footsteps followed the shards. This was one of those mistakes that all too easily conjure a tragedy; the crunching under sturdy shoes and dripping clothes on parquet accompanied the uninvited visitor's way into the house.

It was a homeless man looking for a safe place to sleep since the October nights in Detroit had always turned cold early. No one, neither Ralph nor he, had truly evil intentions that night. This should be said for the ears open to hear it to understand what follows.

Ralph listened to the laboured breath creaking through the stale air, closely followed by a grunt. Fingers scratching places that Ralph would never itch in, the stranger shuffled with slow purpose towards the kitchen. The currentless refrigerator was opened, then closed with a disappointed thump. Next were the shelves in search of anything remotely edible. Ralph knew he’d find nothing. His stress level slowly increased as he took up each rustle that led out the kitchen and closer to the stairs.

He closed his eyes when a hand stuck in perforated fabric embraced the railing and pulled a body with it. Heavy feet took the steps. He went up. Ralph pressed the cool handle of the knife against his lips and didn't stir a fiber.

Maybe he was lucky. If he kept quiet enough, the man wouldn’t notice him even if he decided to rest on the bed. Once he had fallen asleep, Ralph would sneak out of the room and hide in the basement until he left again. As soon as day dawned, they usually went away.

Ralph's processors were running at full speed while the footsteps started to reverberate in the hallway. He was so close now, he could see his form through the walls, organs fulfilling their use in a frailly-built husk.

But what if he didn't go? What if he came back here in the evening because he thought this place was safe? What if others followed him?

Then it would only be a matter of time before they found Ralph. If they wanted to make themselves at home here, he couldn’t hide forever.

And then they’d hurt him. Tease him like the others did, split his manufactured flesh, open him up to see what he was truly made of.

Ralph's future, which had already been bleak and nowhere leading, dipped into a skyline of tar.

The man shuffled past the bedroom and entered the bath. Heartbeats later, a fly was opened, the trickle of fluid following behind. Another one of a human’s basic needs. Needs Ralph would never have to worry about. Needs that would reveal him soon as he mingled with their crowd because he didn’t have them, and had no practice in simulating them either.

But they were vulnerable during these acts. They were vulnerable when caught off guard. Careless, like children, conscious that nothing would grab for them when they weren’t prepared for it. Just like he had been.

Slowly, Ralph rose from his crouch. His stress levels had increased to 70 percent, but his breathing was calm, his LED a rebel red carnation.

He didn’t think much about his steps. The will to preserve aimed his feet towards the stairs, but he found himself walking to the bath instead where the trickle seized and the flush sounded.

The door hung open, a sickened streak of light pouring on the hallway like a lure. He took a step forward, somehow aware and not how the floor would creak under his weight. He caught watch of the man he had been scared of, and realized he had his back on him, studying something in his hands. 

He was 37 years old. Bulky in stature, overweight, a tattered coat draped loosely around his shoulders. Tufts of curly, unwashed hair peeked out under his beanie, already greying at the tips. 

Ralph took another step and stood tall, the soft edge of his cape dragging over the smooth tiles. The fabric made the slightest rasp, rebounding in the small room like an aria. The man froze, shoulders tensing.

He turned around slowly, the gun from the toilet tank in hand. His bleary gaze immediately glued to Ralph’s splintered face, and widened in shock.

“Wha–“

Ralph was on him, stab-stab- _stabbing_ him three times between the ribs.

He aimed desperately, his movements somewhat sluggish yet fluent in a rhythm neither man nor animal knew. The man bent his mouth to a scream, but all that came was a burble of words unfinished while Ralph involuntarily marveled at how the steel sank into flesh like butter melting in the sun.

The man tried to grab for him. Ralph escaped the touch by making a turn, leaving a nasty cut on his shoulder. The human howled in pain, a feisty curse beneath clenched teeth. Strings of bloodied saliva glistened in the thicket of his beard. Red. Ralph would never spill the color himself. For one precarious second he stared at it, fascinated and hollow.

The human lunged forward and shoved him against the bathroom mirror to their left. The sickening crack at the back of his head meeting glass filled Ralph‘s hearing like a siren‘s shriek. _Mayday Mayday_. That wasn‘t supposed to happen.

Alarmed, his good eye rolled, shed a glance aside and saw himself, his whole arm and chest covered wet with blotches of blood. The shadows of his tormenters were back, and this time their ashen faces lingered above his shoulder grinning at him in malovent praise. _Do it. Like we did. He’s the robot now._ He gawked at them, mouth agape.

The sound of a weapon’s safety being taken off snapped his head forward, refocusing his attention. The man pointed the gun to where Ralph‘s thirium pump sat, battered, shaking from head to toe, breathing still though ragged. Ralph looked at the black eye ogling him and didn‘t move an inch. Logic assured him he was too close to escape the shot whether it anchored in his chest, throat or forehead. He wouldn't be able to get spare parts for neither.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe this was how things were meant to go. For beings like him that acted against the purpose they‘d been crafted for.

His mind proved pleasantly blank for once as he anticipated the event they called death.

The man pulled the trigger. A hollow click echoed off the walls, the magazine empty. He opened his mouth, but Ralph rushedand stabbed his windpipe. The gun fell to the floor, sliding in a corner. The man staggered backwards and fell into the bathtub, dragging the shower curtain with him. Some of the retaining rings came loose and clanked on the edge of the tub. 

Motionless, Ralph watched as his twitching stopped, a hand pressed to the oozing cut. Incredulous eyes turned glassy, trained on him. His organs stopped functioning.

It was over. Over. Ralph couldn‘t believe it.

Steadily, the bottom of the tub filled with a delicate sheen of blood, pouring out of each wound he had caused, the scent weighing the air metallic and sharply-sweet in consistence. It was a mess. Ralph was a mess too, and far from overcoming it, but he was the one left standing.

At first, he didn’t know what to do. He had never killed before, never imagined he was capable. Yet again, he wondered why the self-destruct mechanism Cyberlife had built into his software didn’t work already, then he forgot about it since past orders seemed to have lost all the sense they ever made. Or perhaps they had never made sense to begin with.

The more pressing matter materialized in what he should do with the sag of flesh cramped in the tub. Flesh was perishable – hours after the rigor set in it would lure parasites and other vermin, and the stench would spread and taint the floor. Ralph wouldn't mind, but what other predators would it attract? All he wanted was to stop living in fear. To see what life itself might feel like.

Deep in thought, his gaze slid across the corpse still staring at him. The fabric of his coat had flayed open like two halves of a cocoon, offering view of a stained shirt and missing buttons.

He was about to hide him in the cellar till he knew where to put him when a small peck of green peeking out of one of the inside pockets caught his sight. He put the knife away and rummaged, fingers slippery with blood. To his surprise, he procured a flower. A rose, full-bloomed, two smaller buds yet unopened in the crook of its leaves.

He took it before the red could coil and drench the remaining petals. It looked sick enough; withered at the edges, the color a poor cast of former vermilion. The man must have passed a rosebush on his way and broken off one of the flowers before he knew it. It might have been an action of defiance, or one of longing. Ralph had passed the chance of asking him about it, but being honest, he wouldn’t have been too interested in it either way. The rose itself was all he cared for now.

He took a chipped tooth mug from the sink and turned on the tap, filling it to the brink. It deemed a miracle the water pipes were still working, considering how many months the house had been empty. In Ralph’s case, it was the last bit of luck he’d receive for a long time.

He dipped the stem carefully into the mug and watched with cautious excitement how it leaned on the rim, the heavy head tilted aside in misery, the buds mourning beneath. His LED blinked, circling in a dirtied ocher. No, that wouldn’t do. Earth. He needed earth, otherwise the rose wouldn’t last a day.

Cradling the mug to his chest like a mother would its young he went downstairs and out to the backyard. Like the rest of the house, the small garden in its back had been left to its own devices. Weeds and fallen leaves had taken the area by storm, the grass of the lawn growing tall and wild, morning dew clinging to curved tips. They grazed Ralph’s knees as if in belated welcome when he bowed down and dug the ground up with his nails. The earth was a little muddy, but fertile. He had no tools, no shovel, no precise measurements, but for what he intented to do, none of that was necessary.

When he‘d prepared the mug, he rose and returned to the bedroom, the blood on his hands mixed with clods of dirt.

The corpse in the bathtub had already been banished to the back of his mind and his former concern diminished to the size of a fly. He‘d care for it later. There would be no intruders tonight. And if, it wouldn’t matter. He hadn‘t cleaned the knife yet.

He slumped back into the position he‘d been before the intruder arrived. The mug he put on the windowsill, ever in sight, ever in reach. Close enough to keep guard of it as long as he was allowed to. Precious, rotting life in need of healing.

On his knees, he ran the pad of his finger over a petal jutting visibly from the rest, trying to put it back in its crown. It fell off instead and rested on his palm. He stared at it, his expression akin to disappointment without him realizing. Outside, the soft pitter-patter of rain settled into the fading background noise the house carried with, leaving it as ghostly empty as it had been before.

Slowly, softly, he balled his hand into a fist. The petal crumbled under the pressure, suffering incisions and breakage. Yet the petal dying didn‘t mean the flower would too. There were still buds that would recover **,** blossoms that would flourish with enough time, enough light, enough care. There was still hope for the both of them. There had to be.

Ralph had once loved to plant roses in the gardens of Detroit. And it had seemed perfectly logical to him that when their heads wriggled out of the ground, proud and adamant, they bore thorns right underneath their bloom.

He watched till the sun arrived and the rose stretched for its golden rays, hungry and unyielding. Fighting. With luck, its thorns would regain their sharpness too. The thought had him smile for the first time in weeks.

Maybe, in order to survive, it was about time he bore thorns too.


End file.
